I Wanna Take You to a Gay Bar
by Mariposa en Arrullo
Summary: Probably done before- Sherlock and John go to a gay bar- for a case!  Sexy dancing, UST, and a happy ending, of course :  R and R greatly appreciated!
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock wasn't there when John got to the flat, lugging several boxes of heavy things that had been left on the doorstep. He gritted his teeth, and hoisted them onto the kitchen table, wishing the other man was there so John could yell at him for not helping and generally being a nuisance.

He was making tea and looking forward to a nice nap when he heard his flatmate shout his name from the bathroom upstairs.

John poked his head out to the landing, and shouted that he was in the kitchen- which of course the genius _knew_, but John wanted to annoy him, which wasn't very mature but he was dealing with a child, for God's sake.

He returned to the sink, washing out the kettle carefully- he did it every time to check if Sherlock had added fur, or snails- and filled it up with water. He heard his flatmate's voice again, closer, and his steps on the stairs.

"John!"

The doctor sighed, setting the kettle on the stove and turning it up to boil. He turned, and almost fell over backwards.

Sherlock was wearing pants- tight pants, tight _leather_ pants- and a snug lavender t-shirt. His hair was shiny (was that oil?) and was slicked up to the side, flopping jauntily.

He looked, John thought with shock, like an almost-drag queen. Or a mad, eighties-obsessed lunatic with a passion for purple.

The pants were very tight, John decided, throat suddenly constricted. He kept his eyes resolutely on the other man's face, willing the blood to leave his face and flee back to his other extremities. The shirt was a v-neck, and was cut low to show off a pair of sharp collarbones.

Sherlock didn't seem to notice John's flailing. "We're going out tonight," he announced, shifting a bit, either from discomfort- hell, those damn trousers were probably cutting off his circulation, but John did _not look_- or from annoyance.

The army doctor cleared his throat. "Where are we going?" He asked lightly, commending himself on not asking "What the _hell _are you wearing?" Maybe this was just another one of Sherlock's strange quirks, his 'I'm Bored So Naturally I Will Dress up Like a Male Prostitute' mood, and John could be _sensitive._

The detective was studying John's outfit, and frowning. "For a case," he muttered absently.

John shook his head, giving up. He could never just hope for a straight answer with Sherlock.

"But you can't wear that," the other man said suddenly. He looked as if he was considering something. "Put on that suit you wore, during the Moriarty case- you know, the brown tweed one."

John thought about asking why, and decided it wasn't important. He sighed, and looked regretfully (and pointedly) at the kettle before brushing past Sherlock- not _looking_- and headed up the stairs.

"This had better be important," he grumbled over his shoulder. Sherlock didn't answer.

When he came back down, he was wearing a cream collared shirt and a pair of good trousers, along with the apparently _essential_ tweed coat. He had even run a comb through his hair, wondering absentmindedly what it would look like swept up and greased.

John paused in the doorway to the flat, and when Sherlock looked up, he could have sworn he saw a bit of surprise in the man's eyes. But he shook his head because he was definitely seeing things, one of those things being the tight pull of Sherlock's pants against his crotch.

The doctor blushed. Sherlock stood up, and stalked over to John, eyes drinking him in the whole while. He swallowed nervously, feeling like a mouse under the sinister, gleaming eyes of a cat.

Sherlock was close to him, and he could feel the distant heat from his body. John stared at the wall, trying to control his bloody breathing, but the other man just reached his hands out and nimbly undid the top two buttons of John's shirt, and stepped away.

John looked down at his chest in confusion. Now a bit of skin could be seen, still tanned and smooth from Afghanistan. He raised his eyes and found Sherlock scrutinizing him again.

He barely had time to ask what the bloody hell was going on, before Sherlock reached over again and carefully mussed John's hair, smoothing it and pulling it, then withdrawing again to study the outcome.

Apparently it was deemed a success, because the other man cleared his throat and checked his watch, looking almost nervous for a change. But when he looked up again, his eyes were cool and he simply said, "Come on, John," a bit more brusquely than normal.

The air of London was cold, like always, and faintly smoky, like always, and had a distinct undercurrent of fear and electricity which John presumed emanated from the man standing a few feet in front of him.

It was close to ten already, and very shadowy. John found himself wishing to God Sherlock told him his plans once in a while, because really, would it be too much to ask to know where he was going after dark with a camp consulting detective?

Sherlock held up his hand imperiously, looking incongruous against the serious sky, and John felt like the moon was frowning down at him, asking him why he was making such bad life choices.

But he was in too deep, and slid into the taxi without a second's hesitation. He heard Sherlock mutter the address to the cabbie before climbing in beside him, but couldn't make out the words.

The ride was a short one, but John recognized the neighborhood from one of his trips to London in his twenties, before enlisting. It was a poor section of the city, and he could hear shouts and gleeful screams from the dirty road, as well as deep, throbbing music.

They soon found the source. The cab stopped at the end of the street, in front of an incredibly bright building with a neon sign flashing 'The Red Fox.'

The beat of the song was loud and John stepped out of the taxi in wonder. Sherlock was grinning at the sign like it was an old friend.

John grabbed his arm before he could flounce in. "Wait, Sherlock!" He hissed, feeling a bit wobbly. He hadn't come to a club in ages, not since- well, his twenties. "Can you please tell me what the hell we're doing?"

Sherlock looked at him, excitement sparking in his eyes like they always did right before a chase. "This is where our man is," he declared, before shaking off John's arm and pulling open the door.

The music pounded a bit louder from within, and John could see flickering lights ahead. He gaped for a moment, mouth open, and then became aware of the staring groups of smokers hanging around the front, mostly men- many with piercings, he noticed- and followed his friend inside.

It was a very _clubby_ club, with the drinks and the crappy music and the crowded dance floor of writhing bodies. John noticed, with growing distress, that a lot of them were men- though there were a few women- and a lot of the men were dancing with other men. A few were making out, tongues dipping in and out as the tune pulsed obnoxiously.

He spotted Sherlock, standing off to one side, watching the orgy with evident disdain, apparently ignorant of the eyes he attracted by just standing there with his hip cocked. John ignored the stupid flash of jealousy he felt, and made his way over to the other man. He grabbed his flatmate's arm and pulled him so they were facing each other.

"Sherlock-" John began, seething. "Did you take me to a _gay bar_?"

Sherlock scowled. "Don't be dull, John. Stenson is right there." He pointed to the suspect, who was nursing a glass of scotch and sitting alone at the bar, apparently too depressed to join the party- perhaps because he had just murdered his own brother.

Sherlock had the look of a lion that had just spotted his prey. He brushed John off again and strode purposefully over to the bar, throwing himself loudly on the stool next to Stenson, who raised his head in wonder to look at the creature next to him.

Sherlock ignored him, crying out flamboyantly for a glass of vodka. When he received it, he downed all the liquid in one go, setting the glass back down with an exaggerated sigh. John watched in fascination.

Stenson was still staring a Sherlock, with his own slightly predatory gaze, and John felt the same sharp prick of anger as before. He shushed his feelings and reminded his brain that Sherlock knew how to handle himself quite well, thanks.

But that didn't stop him from clenching his fists when Stenson smiled at the detective, or when Sherlock smiled back, and when after a few minutes the bloody _murder_ suspect put a hand on Sherlock's thigh.

John was glaring so hard he almost didn't hear the young man ask him a question. He turned in surprise. The bloke was probably in his early to mid-thirties, handsome, with prominent laugh lines and clear green eyes. John drew the corner of his mouth up nervously, and gestured to the music and then to his ear apologetically.

"Sorry?" He shouted over the din. The man simply grinned wider, and bellowed, "Do you want to dance?"

John's mouth hanged open a sliver. He reddened a little, and tried to think of what to say.

"I'm here with someone!" He replied, feeling very awkward and uncomfortable. "Sorry!"

The man didn't look hurt, just a bit disappointed. But he smiled again, and before the doctor could make a move slithered up close and pressed a wet kiss on John's cheek. His breath smelled something awful, of stale beer and sweat, and he whispered, "Well, if you change your mind, just find me," and vanished into the darkness.

John shook his head in disbelief, and checked on Sherlock. He could have sworn the man had been looking at him, but he was listening to Stenson talk loudly, though John thought he saw a faint frown lingering on his face.

Then Stenson leaned in, putting his mouth next to Sherlock's ear and murmuring something. The detective smiled, nodded, and slid off his stool, holding Stenson's eyes for a moment before winking and prancing into the mass of people on the dance floor. Stenson stared after him for a second, then downed his drink in one gulp and followed. John couldn't help but watch, clutching his untouched ginger ale.

Before this night, if anyone had asked John how Sherlock danced, he would have imagined an awkward, gangly side-stepping, maybe a Victorian ball.

But this Sherlock was all grace and smooth seduction, sliding his hands around Stenson's waist and pulling him close. John had to stop a snarl when his saw the man's hands reach down and cup Sherlock's arse, round and firm in his close-fitting trousers.

He swallowed instead, and tried to control himself. When he looked back, Stenson had Sherlock's back against his chest, and his fingers grasped his waist as the detective was grinding back, their two bodies flush against each other.

Stenson was clearly enjoying being the dominant one, and was holding Sherlock like he owned him. Sherlock, finally facing away from the man, had stopped his act and had a blank expression, and that was the last straw for John. He wanted to stride up to them and yank the fucking _oaf_ off his friend, and punch him right in the bloody nose.

Except that would be unimaginably stupid, and besides, he was a _doctor_. And Sherlock- well, Sherlock could take care of himself for a few moments. John pushed his way carelessly through the crowd, making his way towards the sign that said _restroom_. He was going to calm down, and act normal. This was all for the case, he reminded himself. Sherlock had no interest in Stenson, Sherlock definitely did not enjoy being with Stenson, and Sherlock undeniably would not want to know that John was equal parts spitting mad and insanely aroused from watching him move like that. 


	2. Chapter 2

_**A little cliché, this one… One more chapter after this! Thanks to all readers and reviewers!**_

John returned to the dance floor after a couple of blokes staggered in as he was washing his hands, slurping at each other's faces and groping like there was no tomorrow.

He made his hasty exit as one put his hands down the other's pants.

Sherlock and Stenson were nowhere to be seen, and John stopped his brain from conjuring up images of the two of them in some other dirty lavatory, going at it. Sherlock wouldn't do that; he was sure- not because he had some high moral principle but because it didn't directly help the case.

John ordered another drink, standing a bit awkwardly in the corner, as far from the crowds as possible. He would wait for a bit, then call Sherlock, who had probably sniffed a lead and ran smack out of the club without a second thought.

"John."

Startled, the doctor spun around to find the other man standing at his elbow.

"Sherlock- What happ-"

The detective cut him off briskly. "He's outside making a phone call. But he's still suspicious," he continued, eyes roaming the room. "He's never gotten this much attention on his nights out- possibly because of his natural antipathy to people, probably because he forgets to wear deodorant on a daily basis." He wrinkled his nose.

John kept his eyes on the crowd. "So we're done here?" he asked, wincing as his voice came out abrupt.

Sherlock looked at him. "Problem?"

John shook his head. "What am I doing here, Sherlock? How am I supposed to help?" He tried sounding matter-of-fact, and not like a whiny child.

Sherlock was studying him. "I need to make him want me, enough to forget his doubts and open up." He moved a barely noticeable step closer to John.

The doctor swallowed. "Well, I don't see what I've got to do with that. You seem to be getting on fine on your own." He cursed his stupid mouth, blushing.

Sherlock seemed to see something, and grabbed his elbow suddenly, dragging him towards the dancers. John yelped in surprise, attempting to wrench his arm back.

"He's here. I need to make him jealous," he hissed into John's ear. "Just go along with what I do."

John shook his head in disbelief, but let his flatmate pull him over to the edge of the undulating bodies. He kept his eyes on the floor.

"_John_." Sherlock sounded impatient. "Put your arms on my waist."

The doctor's head snapped up. "What?" He reddened as his voice came out high and shrill. "No!"

Sherlock sighed in irritation and grabbed John's wrists, placing them on his hips. He held them in place as he leaned towards the other man, eyes flashing with annoyance. "Come on, John! We _need_ Stenson. He's the key to Edward's murder!

The doctor pursed his lips. "Alr_ight_!" He glared up at the other man.

Sherlock removed his hands, placing them on John's shoulders. They were warm and light, and John wondered what they would feel like if he weren't wearing so many clothes- would the palms be callused or smooth? Probably the latter, he decided distantly, while Sherlock swayed uncomfortably above him.

Then the other man chose to press himself against John's chest, hands lowering to his hips and rubbing his crotch against John's with evil accuracy. It felt good, bloody great, actually- but this wasn't the best idea, because John was quite adept at getting hard at the absolute worse times.

He pushed the other man away angrily, breathing hard and mouth unable to work for some reason. "What the bloody _hell_ was that?" He snapped finally, staring up in fury at Sherlock's face.

Sherlock looked irritated, and a little bit of something else. "Dancing with my _grandmother_ won't make him desire me, John!" he lashed out. "I can't understand why this is so _difficult._"

John sputtered. "It's- I'm not-" he clenched his fists. "It's not _difficult_. Just tell me what I need to do, don't expect me to just go along with everything! I want to know!"

Sherlock frowned. "Fine." He stepped closer again. "We're going to _grind,_ as they call it. Is that alright with you, _doctor_?"

John gritted his teeth. "Fine," he spat, then swung the other man around so his back was to John's chest. "Go ahead, then."

Sherlock was immobile in front of him for a moment, then backed into John determinedly. He ground his arse into the other man's groin, hard, and John gripped his hips tightly, wishing he could reach out and taste the smooth neck that was bobbing in front of him.

John thought desperately about something other than the tufts of dark hair in front of his mouth, and the man whose bottom was firmly rubbing itself against his cock.

He thought about the cat his mother ran over when he was four, the color of a dead man's eyeballs, Mrs. Hudson naked, Mrs. Hudson naked with Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson naked with Anderson- but nothing worked, because Sherlock was moaning slightly and tipping his head back onto John's shoulder and John had reached his limit. He was sure Sherlock could feel the half-hardness of his cock through his bloody trousers, and he couldn't face the detective's eyes as he shoved him away.

John didn't say anything, didn't explain, _couldn't _explain, because it was all so fucking embarrassing, all of it. He could feel Sherlock's eyes on the back of his neck like lasers as he walked away, burning and scorching, and he pushed people out of the way a bit rougher than necessary.

The night air was cold, thank God, and John half-wanted Sherlock to burst out of the door like some knight in shining armor and beg him to come back. But of course, he had to get Stenson. Well, John thought savagely as he hailed a cab, Stenson can bloody well have him, for all he cared.

He slammed the door of the taxi hard, snapping "221b Baker Street" at the cabbie with venom he could not quite explain.

As soon as he arrived, John stomped up the stairs and threw himself down in his favorite chair. He debated sleeping, but the thought of tossing and turning and_ dreaming_ made him groan.

Then he felt a buzzing from his jacket pocket, and retrieved his cell phone. It was a text, from Sherlock- just three words- well, a number and two words. An address- 14 Wilhelm Street.

John cursed, not sure whether to be furious that Sherlock had agreed to go back to Stenson's flat or relieved that Sherlock had actually remembered to inform John of his whereabouts like the doctor had asked.

Worry won out, and John looked up the location of the address in a flash, grabbing his gun and tucking it into the back of his jeans as he jumped in another cab.

He told the cabbie to take him to one Wilhelm Street, because he had no real plan of action but make sure Sherlock was alright. Despite being easily seduced, the man they thought was the culprit was a real terror, and John had seen his type before- domineering and crazy and dangerous. This one was dangerous enough to kill. At that thought, he sent a text to Lestrade of the address and a brief description of the situation, in case John failed to save the day.

He walked along the street in the beams of streetlamps, squinting to see whether any of the houses said "14." He found the right one, finally, a nondescript building with a dark door. There was a lock, but John had brought a credit card and a paper clip, because Sherlock had taught him once when he was so mind-numbingly _bored _how to pick locks.

John got it open quickly and quietly, fear flashing in every loud beat of his heart. He doubted Stenson wanted Sherlock for a nice, vanilla night of lovemaking. The suspect was a dirty bastard, and John had a lot of experience with dirty bastards. They liked their things rough, and painful, and they liked feeling powerful.

He made no sound as he entered, closing the door so the light wouldn't shine in. He heard voices from upstairs, a chilling kind of laughter. His heart almost stopped, and he swallowed painfully.

John took the stairs one at a time, wanting to bound right up and shoot the brains out of the bastard, but his military training won out, and he opted for stealth. In any case, he wouldn't do any good to Sherlock dead.

Finally, the doctor reached the top. There was a light in the room to the left, but he couldn't see in properly. He stood completely still as he heard Stenson's voice again.

"-and you're lucky you're such a dirty little whore, because you're gonna love what I'm gonna do to you." He heard a muffled protest.

_Sherlock.__  
><em>  
>John inched closer, slowly, every step killing him. There was another taunt from Stenson, and he heard a sharp crack and then a cry, louder this time.<p>

John didn't think, just ran. He sprinted into the room, gun up, hands poised on the trigger.

Stenson whirled around, black whip in one hand, smile dropping from his face. Sherlock was on the ground in front of him, hands and feet tied, shirt pulled up to show a long red mark on the expanse of his back. He was gagged and blindfolded.

John wanted to drop to the floor and untie him, see his eyes, see that he was alright- but he kept his eyes on Stenson, hissing, "Don't move."

The man nodded, eyes wide. John gestured with his head. "Move away from him, now."

The man started to step away, but then grabbed Sherlock, a knife appearing out of nowhere from his hand. He placed it with alarming calmness on the detective's throat. "I'll do it," he warned, voice shaking. He tightened his grip on Sherlock's chest. "I swear, I'll kill him!"

John was gripping the gun so closely his hands were turning deathly white. He couldn't put down the gun-

But then Stenson's hand shook a little, and a thin crimson line opened up on Sherlock's neck.

John reacted instantly, fear exploding in his stomach, and shot Stenson's leg with smooth accuracy. The man howled, dropping the knife as John had hoped and falling backwards, grasping at his calf.

John hurried towards his flatmate, but Stenson grabbed the knife and tried desperately to aim it at Sherlock's back. John shot him once more, this time in the heart. 

Sherlock was holding himself upright, but he was swaying, still blindfolded. "John?" he rasped out, voice cracking uncertainly. He held out his hands, searching. "John?"

The doctor took his hands in his own. "Here," he said, relief sweeping through him, hot and swift. He suddenly felt weak at the knees.

He took the blindfold and the gag off, and then untied the other man's wrists. Sherlock's eyes were a bit red, and John stared at them worriedly. "Alright?" he asked gently, resisting the urge to reach up and stroke the other man's cheek. Sherlock just gazed at him, swallowing, and looking for the entire world like a little boy who'd woken up alone in the dark.

He just nodded once, blinking a few times. John felt his heart almost break.

"Okay." He leaned down and undid the rope around the other man's feet, then stepped away carefully. "Let's get you home, then."


	3. Chapter 3

_**That's all… Thanks for all the incredibly nice reviews!**_

Sherlock was silent as the grave as the cab bumped along the streets, and John couldn't help but steal glances at him the whole way. But Sherlock was staring, unmoving, out the window, and John had to satisfy himself with watching his messy head of curls.

When they got out, John paid the cabbie quickly, noting with a wince that the blood from the cut had stained the back of his flatmate's shirt.

Sherlock stood in front of the door, stiff and unseeing, as John twisted the key. He stepped inside slowly, wobbling a bit, and John almost grabbed his arm. But then Sherlock was inside, walking up the stairs, and John hurried after him.

As soon as he was inside, Sherlock regained a bit of his old spark, pacing around the flat and muttering angrily, throwing his hands around like he was giving a presidential speech.

John stood there warily. He didn't want to leave, but he was sure Sherlock wouldn't react well to what he scoffed at as "coddling." Anyways, John wasn't the best coddler- he was a_ soldier_, for God's sake.

The doctor settled for a simple, "Are you all right?" He crossed the room and plopped down wearily on his armchair.

Sherlock was still wandering aimlessly, clenching his hands on and off and blinking furiously. John watched him with concern.

"Sherlock."

The detective continued to pace, throwing a "Yes, fine!" at John. The doctor sighed, and got up. He was going to bed. It had been a long night, after all.

He shuffled tiredly towards the stairs, mumbling good night to Sherlock. "Wash the cut with warm water," he added, brushing off the motherly instinct to make sure the wound was taken care of himself.

"John."

He groaned, turning around. But Sherlock was standing, hands behind his back, face almost apprehensive. John frowned, taking an uncertain step closer.

Sherlock fidgeted, swallowing. "I- I want to thank you." He reached a hand up and tugged at his hair uncomfortably. "For coming."

John's throat tightened. He sighed. "Well, let's hope we didn't leave any evidence," he murmured briefly, wanting very badly for an intense moment to fold the other man into his arms.  
>He turned again, closing his eyes. Maybe tomorrow it would all be normal again.<p>

But Sherlock said his name again, this time with a bit of desperation.

"John!" He strode towards the doctor with anxiety in his eyes. "I can't-" Sherlock stopped, pressing his lips together. "I can't reach," he muttered, eyes on the floor.

John bit his lip. "Alright," he said quickly. "Come up to my room, I've got my kit."

Sherlock hesitated for a second, and John wanted to scream, "What do you want from me, you crazy man!"

Maybe he saw some of this in the doctor's eyes, because he just said, "Alright."

John climbed the stairs with a strange sort of trepidation, feeling the other man behind him. It was cold and silent, his steps clattering and his friend's smooth and noiseless like a cat's.

They reached John's bedroom, and John left Sherlock with the explanation that he was going to get some warm water from the bathroom. He wetted some cloth, staring into the mirror and wondering why his heart was beating so loudly and strangely in his chest.

When John returned, there was a shirtless Sherlock sitting on the edge of his bed. John stared, mouth open, taking in the expanse of alabaster skin, the hint of ribs poking through. He was impossibly smooth, and John had a strong urge to shout "Magnificent!" like he did at crime scenes whenever Sherlock spouted some preposterously amazing thing, waving his hands like it was stupidly obvious.

Sherlock was staring back, hands at his sides. His gaze was challenging, a little determined, and a little self-conscious, John thought. He swallowed carefully and sat on the bed behind his friend, crossing his legs awkwardly and studying the bright line of rusty blood in front of him that looked so out of place next to all the whiteness.

He brushed gently at the dried blood, alert for any cringes or flinches of pain. But Sherlock was like a creamy statue, the only living thing about him the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

John smoothed on a bandage, almost as pale as the skin around it. He hesitated for a moment, at loathe to move, because that would break the spell of the silence and the warmth and the fact that _Sherlock_ was on his bed. John was trembling a little. He wanted acutely to lean forward, kiss the long neck in front of him, trace the line of the man's shoulders with his tongue, reach his hands around and map out the skin of his chest-

"John," Sherlock's voice was ragged, soft against the quiet. "Please."

And John let out a little puff of what was either despair or delight, because he was sure that was permission to lose himself in the body in front of him.

He was slow at first, tentative, barely willing to breath. He placed his hands lightly on Sherlock's shoulders, like the other man had done to John what felt like a lifetime ago. They were hot, and he felt sharp bones sticking out at the ends.

"You need to eat more," he breathed against the spot where Sherlock's shoulder met his neck, simply inhaling, and John felt Sherlock scrape out a whimper, letting his head fall back.

"You're an idiot," the other man whispered without any bite, falling back.

The first time they kissed, it was a curious brush of lips against lips, electric and teasing, too little and too much.

John growled, grabbing the back of Sherlock's neck, and kissed him again, slipping his tongue in and twisting it around the other man's. He felt himself falling, too, onto his back. He opened his eyes and found black ones looking back at him, full mouth wet and slightly open.

"Beautiful," he said in a low voice, deep and husky. Sherlock shuddered against him, lowering himself down. They fit together perfectly, John clasping Sherlock's sides with tight hands, moving them down haltingly to explore his arse, rewarded with a wordless moan.

At some point Sherlock took it upon himself to rid John of his clothes, and peeled down his own trousers. They stared for a long moment, each at that terrifying place between laughter and tears. Then Sherlock sunk down again, exhaling noisily into John's neck.

They moved slowly against each other, intoxicated by the scent of skin sliding together. John felt a crescendo rising in his ears, fueled by the sharp sounds Sherlock made as John snuck a hand down and grasped their two cocks.

He felt himself gasping and moaning, whispering nonsense and 'Sherlock', hearing his own name bit out in an involuntary chant, over and over. He held the other man close and arched up suddenly, coming into the close, secret space between their two bodies. Sherlock shook one last time, violently, and did the same, collapsing onto John's chest.

Neither spoke for a long time, because it was a noiseless place, the place they were in.

But finally, Sherlock rolled over into the space beside John, curling himself into a little ball, face pressed against the pillow. John turned onto his side, and reached out and stroked his cheek in awe.

Sherlock shuddered into the pillow, but shifted his head so he was staring at John. They looked at each other again, and John leaned over and kissed him briefly on the mouth. He tasted of sweat and hotness and Sherlock, and John smiled uncertainly against the other man's lips.

He withdrew, and Sherlock had his mouth open, staring at John. His eyes were bright and shiny, John saw with horror.

He cursed himself. "I'm sorry," he whispered, wondering what he had done. "I'm sorry."

For a second, Sherlock's face contorted into complete misery. His mouth twisted, but the expression was gone in an instant. He threw himself off the bed, grabbing at his shirt and trousers angrily.

John was baffled. "What did I do?" he asked, thoroughly confused.

Sherlock was struggling with his pants, face set in anger. John scrambled off the bed.

"Sherlock!"

The other man pressed his lips together furiously. "It doesn't change anything," he spat out bitterly. "You needn't be so worried, _doctor_. I don't _want _anything from you."

John grabbed at Sherlock's arms, holding them tightly. "What the hell are you on about?" he demanded, glaring. "I don't want anything from you, you stupid git!"

Sherlock was frowning harshly. "The why did you feel the need to apologize?" he inquired icily, trying to tug his arms back.

John laughed in disbelief, keeping a tight grip on his hands. "I- I wasn't trying to- _erase_ it, if that's what you mean!" He squeezed the other man's forearms. "You were bloody _crying,_ for God's sake!"

Sherlock blinked, mouth falling open a bit. He just stood there, and John could practically see the gears working in his brain, trying to remember each and every second of their encounter accurately, and analyzing them for anything out of place.

"Oh."

John smiled weakly, realizing suddenly there were tears threatening to fall from the corners of his eyes. He clasped Sherlock's hands in his own, rubbing his thumb over his palm, grinning wildly.

"I love you, you big idiot," he whispered, leaning in and pressing a chaste kiss to Sherlock's nose.

The other man simply studied John, blinking. Finally Sherlock smiled timidly, asking, "Not good?"

John shook his head, smiling. "Bit not good, yeah," he admitted ruefully, folding the other man into a tight hug. He kissed the detective's neck in a rush of affection.

"Let's get to bed." The doctor drew back and chuckled at the mutinous expression on Sherlock's face.

"No," John said, giggling like a little girl. "_You_ are going to sleep- now," he added for good measure, trying to look serious. How the man could go through all that and not want to just fall into bed was beyond him.

Sherlock took a step back, and John suddenly felt cold. The detective pressed his lips into a thin line. "Good night," he said stiffly, looking at the floor. He straightened up, and some of his old haughtiness came back.

John gaped at him as he strode out of the room. "Sherlock!"

The man turned imperiously, a bit of anger glimmering in his eyes. "Yes, _John_?"

John stared for a moment, puzzled, then understood. "Oh." He reached out and took Sherlock's hand. "I meant _mine- _if you like," he added awkwardly.

Sherlock gazed at him, and John's throat was dry. He swallowed.

Sherlock nodded, and John felt a wave of relief. He coughed and magnanimously gestured to the loo. "You can go first," he offered, trying to stifle a grin.

Sherlock smiled slowly, and brushed past John into the bathroom. "Please try to keep from snoring, John," he remarked over his shoulder. John gawked at the closed door.

"I do not snore!"

"Yes, you do," was the bored reply.

John considered this for a moment. He shrugged.

But then: "Hold on, how do you know that?" John shouted, alarmed.

He imagined he could hear Sherlock grin above the noise of the shower.

-End- 


	4. Chapter 4

_**So, yeah- I'm continuing this, and I'll probably update very slowly. Thanks again for the comments!**_

Sherlock was an octopus when sleeping. A dangerous, sharp-boned, long-limbed, _sprawling_ octopus that seemed to ooze into every crack or air pocket of the bed- _John's_ bed, he thought indignantly.

But it was nicer, sleeping with an octopus, warmer than sleeping alone. John resisted the urge to shift slightly, to snuggle deeper into the cozy recess of Sherlock's body curved around him. He didn't want to wake the other man, because_ this_- the cuddling- was surprisingly pleasant. That and genuinely normal, which was strange.

John settled for a happy sigh, moving his numb arm slowly out from Sherlock's side, tucking it between their two bodies. It was incredibly soothing, and just so _warm_, and John fell asleep registering vaguely that Sherlock smelled like John's soap, an old gift from Harry, spicy and apple-scented.

When he woke up again, he was nestled comfortably in the crook of Sherlock's neck. His mouth was open slightly, half of his face pressed against a clean dark blue fabric.

John started, blinking his eyes open slowly. Sherlock had his eyes shut, and his chest was rising and falling peacefully. His arm was curled around John's shoulders.

The doctor shifted so his head was higher on the pillow, regarding his friend with an amused grin. Sherlock was a superb actor, as John had had the opportunity to discover a few memorable times, but John could tell when a man was awake or asleep, especially at this distance.

He cleared his throat. Sherlock remained unmoving, looking the picture of an innocent, slumbering cherub.

"Morning," John said sunnily, grinning wider when he saw an almost imperceptible tightening in the corners of the other man's lips.

Sherlock continued to feign ignorance, even shifting his head a bit against the pillow in an apparently subconscious reaction to John's voice.

"Oh, come on, Sherlock." John reached a hand up and tapped the detective's nose playfully.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose involuntarily, then frowned and cracked one eye open a slit.

"John," he acknowledged finally, sleep making his voice bit deeper than usual.

John shivered a little, a tiny sensual crawl across his back. He ignored it, embarrassed.

John had always had a strange fascination with Sherlock's lips. Even before this, he had to force himself stop staring at them whenever Sherlock ranted, or when he was just motionless, lost in thought, like now.

John really couldn't help himself. He reached out and traced the outline of the other man's lips, gently, with his pointer finger. He had a really marvelous mouth, John thought dreamily, lingering a little in the sharp V of the top lip.

Then, of course, he realized what he was doing, and stole his hand back quickly. Sherlock was staring at him, impassive and unmoving as a rock.

"Hello," John mumbled, a little unnecessarily, voice cracking on the last syllable. They gazed at each other, John's pulse beating a little faster, a strange tension in his chest, unable to blink.

Then Sherlock put out his own hand, fingers slow, as to almost ask permission. John closed his eyes, breathless.

The pad's of the detective's fingers were a strange, rough softness, electric, leaving tingling trails as they traveled hesitantly, lightly, over the doctor's face.

John held his breath, resisting the urge to push into the other man's touch. He simply held himself there, as Sherlock's fingers mapped out his face.

Then Sherlock turned onto his side, and the bed groaned and squeaked in protest. He slipped another warm hand underneath John's sleeping shirt, staying a hot, tangible presence on his stomach.

John had twitched a little at the unexpected contact, but kept his eyes closed. The hand that had been on his face was now in his hair, massaging lightly but firmly, and John felt like an ape being groomed.

Sherlock's fingers were still tentative; brushing over his skin like it was a precious ancient artifact- 'handle carefully.'

He was everywhere, and John felt his toes curl in pleasure as Sherlock reached a sensitive point on his back, careful of the scarred shoulder. He let out a low breath.

Then, instead of fingers, there were lips caressing his face, feathery grazes on his eyelids, his temple, the underside of his chin, the hollow at the base of his neck.

Everywhere but his lips.

John gave a half-hearted 'humph' of discontent, and reached out blindly for Sherlock's face. He wound his hands firmly around his neck and pulled him in, fitting their mouths together. Sherlock was stiff for a second, then yielded, soft and pliant. It continued just like that, a dreamy, warm sort of ecstasy, John thought, and Sherlock was leading, and he was following, because what did he ever do but chase after the man, and-

There was a short, curt ring from somewhere on the bedside table. Sherlock ignored it, cradling John's head like it was a fragile, breakable thing. After a second John shut it out too, because Sherlock was being _quite _distracting.

Some time later, Sherlock was being his very interesting self to John's nipples, which had never met anyone as curious as Sherlock and John was positive they'd never recover. He was arching his back shamelessly, gasping, and the phone rang again. John registered the sound dimly.

"Sher- Sherlock," he panted, growling at a hint of teeth, and bucking. "The phone-"

"It's Lestrade," the other man snapped, and John was distantly pleased his own voice wasn't the only one worse for wear from their activities. Sherlock, suddenly, switched his head to the other nipple, sucking hard.

John let out a rough sound, definitely not a gasp, he decided firmly. He struggled stubbornly, pushing the other man's shoulders so he stopped suckling at John like a bloody infant.

Sherlock was breathing heavily, and looking extremely annoyed. "What, John? What is so important?" he spat, dark, blown-out eyes narrowing angrily. John, of course, found this incredibly attractive, and reminded himself never to rile Sherlock up before sex.

He glared stubbornly at the other man. "You should pick it up," he said, wanting very much to throw the damn phone out the window and do some sucking of his own. Sherlock tightened his lips, irritated.

"It might be a case," John added, trying to tempt him. Normally Sherlock would have literally dropped whatever he was doing for even the slightest chance of a case.

"I'm busy," Sherlock retorted, fingers tightening on John's inner thigh. The doctor jumped a little, and closed his eyes. _Lord, please save me from this insane man_, he pleaded, and moved his leg out of reach.

"No, Sherlock." John sighed, and rubbed his mouth with his fingers, stifling the tiny prick of sadness that remembered Sherlock's touch there.

The other man glowered, then fell back onto the pillows with a dramatic thump. He threw a long-suffering hand over his eyes. John choked back a laugh.

"I'll be in the shower," John told him, receiving a growl and lazy flick of a hand in reply. He grinned wryly, and couldn't resist planting a loud smooch on Sherlock's upturned palm.

He felt the man flinch, then scowl at him. John gave him a teasing grin, and slowly got off the bed. The floor was icy on his cozy feet, and John suddenly wanted nothing more than a hot shower. Maybe a cold one, he amended, looking down at his bottom half sheepishly.

He turned the water on, bones creaking and cracking. John stretched unhurriedly, and couldn't resist peeking out again at Sherlock one more time.

He was curled into a tiny ball again, heartbreakingly small, and had shifted so his body was entirely in the space John had just vacated. The doctor smiled widely, all of a sudden warm again.

He couldn't wait until this bloody case was over. 


	5. Chapter 5

_**Don't hate on the case, please. It's hard!**___

Sherlock was already impeccably dressed when John exited the loo, pulling his oatmeal jumper over a gray collared shirt.

He made toast while Sherlock glowered down at the newspaper, wondering how long his sulk would last.

As John spread jam on two slices of bread, the other man decided to rise and stride over to the refrigerator, opening it with an effortless tug and staring inside. John watched him warily. "What are you doing?"

"I would have thought it was obvious, John," Sherlock replied calmly.

"No, not especially."

A small container of something fell onto the floor, seemingly of its own accord. "Ah," Sherlock lamented, and then leaned down to pick it up, presenting his rear to John. It was quite the backside, very firm and round and muscled, and John had to stop himself from reaching down and giving it a squeeze.

_Bloody fuck_, he thought, gripping the counter. "You're doing that on purpose," he accused. This was a hellish sort of payback. He should have expected it.

Sherlock straightened up, unable to hide a smug grin. He stalked slowly over to John, licking his lips slowly, and pausing with his mouth a mere inch from John's. "Perhaps," he breathed, and John fought the urge to close his eyes in anticipation of the kiss. "Perhaps not." Smirking, Sherlock began to turn away.

With a growl of frustration John grabbed his hips, yanked him around and shoved him against the fridge. Sherlock's eyes flared in what looked like a mix of shock, annoyance, and a tiny prick of arousal.

John cupped the back of his neck and brought their mouths together, kissing the other man with a feverish intensity. How he could ever get tired of this, he would never know.

Finally he drew back. Sherlock let out a disappointed sound, almost a whine. "That'll teach you," John whispered, smiling.

Sherlock snorted, winding his arms tightly around John's waist. "I _am _a very fast learner."

XXXXX

John had supposed things would be different after they'd had sex. Granted, he and Sherlock weren't holding hands or snogging intermittently, but surely _someone_ could tell that they had shagged only hours ago.

Lestrade greeted them with a brusque nod. He opened his mouth to explain the situation, but Sherlock, as always the epitome of politeness, cut him off.

"How long?"

The man grimaced, holding up the yellow tape so that they could enter the crime scene. "Found him this morning, one of our own called in."

The photographers were packing their equipment away when Sherlock reached the body, curled on its side. He squatted, and John couldn't help staring at his arse for a few moments before jerking his head up. He looked around to see if anyone had noticed. They hadn't, thank god.

The dead man had sustained horrific injuries to his face, making it unrecognizable. From his body John supposed he was in his early twenties, dressed in a muddy shirt and stylishly cuffed jeans, with close-cropped brown hair. Sherlock had his magnifying glass out, studying the end of his trousers. He got to his feet, gesturing for John to examine the body.

John bent down. "Dead - maybe 24 hours." He looked for signs of strangulation. "I'd say head trauma. Night out with the lads, too much to drink - probably got mugged."

Sherlock was looking pleased with himself. "Interesting," he murmured. John raised his eyebrow.

"What is?"

"Oh, nothing. Just the fact that this is the son of our very own Prime Minister." Sherlock snapped off his latex gloves and handed them to Lestrade, who was gaping.

"He's the _what_?"

Sherlock had managed to attract the attention of almost every person within hearing distance, and how he loved a rapt audience. "Did you see his trousers?"

John sighed. "No, what about them?" he asked dully, wondering if he could speed up the process. He enjoyed hearing Sherlock's analyses, but when they were sprinkled with taunts and pointless posturing the experience was less pleasant.

Sherlock scowled at him. "Those kinds of jeans are cheap. They're pre-made to be cuffed like that - if you look closely you'll see that they are sown that way, but poorly. Should have come undone within days of purchase. This particular style was released months ago, but they were recalled after a fight with the manufacturer. So this man could only have bought these weeks ago, but the hemline is perfect. Inference: someone has sowed it back up for him."

"What if it was he was just handy with a needle and thread?" John asked. "Could have sowed it up himself."

Sherlock looked at him, scornful. "No one ever does that."

Lestrade rubbed his chin. "So you're saying he got a maid or something to patch them back up? That doesn't mean he's the bloody prime minister's son. He's probably just a wealthy daddy's boy."

Sherlock shook his head impatiently. "His ring finger," he pointed. "There's a clear pale line. Obviously he has just broken off a marriage."

Michael Davis, youngest son of Prime Minister Andrew Davis, had just divorced his wife of five years, Elizabeth, in a highly public scandal gleefully covered by the British tabloids.

"And in addition," Sherlock continued. "If you had bothered to look, you might have noticed this." He peeled back the tag, which had a large black M on it. "Helps when you have to distinguish eight children. He moved back in with his powerful parents after she left him."

"Brilliant," John said in spite of himself. It really was quite amazing, though. Or maybe that was just the man behind the words.

Sherlock gave him an affectionately exasperated look. "Repetitive, John," he replied with a roll of his eyes.

Lestrade crossed his arms. "So I'm supposed to be calling up the Prime Minister and telling him that his sodding son is dead?"

Sherlock nodded. "Though personally I'd relegate the task to someone more suitable. Anderson, perhaps." He smiled wolfishly. "Have a good afternoon, Detective Inspector. Come along, John," he added offhandedly, starting to stride away.

John hurried to keep up. "Where are we going?"

Sherlock hailed a cab. "To St. Matthew's Hospital. Elizabeth Davis works there as a surgeon."

XXXXXX

"Christ, Sherlock, would you stop bloody fussing -"

"John, I am perfectly alright, I don't understand why you -"

Sherlock pressed a hand against his belly. It came away bloody. "Well. That's not -" He fainted into John's arms.

As soon as he had gotten Sherlock settled into bed, bandaged up and gorged on painkillers, John made a soothing cup of tea and sank down into his armchair. The nerve of that man, getting himself clocked in the face and stabbed in the stomach before John could even get a leg out of the cab.

Elizabeth Davis had been 'very helpful', according to Sherlock. Sobbing, she had told them all about her late ex-husband's secret drug problems, even about a masked dealer with a missing left eye who had been threatening him.

"The Salamander," Sherlock had exclaimed, leaping up and running off. John had barely had enough time to reach the cab before it sped off.

The Salamander was a famous underground heroin dealer, Sherlock had explained excitedly. As soon as the taxi pulled to a stop he launched into a shabby alleyway, disappearing as John threw money at the cabbie and rushed after him.

He'd found the other man laying alone on the ground, comatose and bleeding from the stomach. Sherlock regained consciousness as John propped him on his shoulder, confused and disoriented but relatively fine.

Idiot, John thought, sipping his tea. They were going to have a very serious discussion about _waiting for John_ as soon as Sherlock woke up.

A few hours later the detective stumbled in, looking for once in his life thoroughly bedraggled. John looked up with concern, going over to peel back the bandage on his smooth stomach. The bleeding had stopped. He applied a new covering as Sherlock leaned on him, letting his head bump John's shoulder.

"You are very stupid," John informed him, cradling his head in his hands and examining his skull.

Sherlock blinked. "Be nice to me, John," he mumbled into his neck. "I am in considerable pain."

"You're high on prescription drugs, that's what you are." John softened. "Alright. Into the bed."

Sherlock tightened his grip on John's neck. "Stay," he ordered.

"Okay, okay. I'm knackered anyway. You'll be the death of me, you know."

"Mm," Sherlock agreed, gazing up sleepily as John tucked the covers more tightly around him.

John climbed in beside him. Amazing to think that they had been in this position only a few hours ago. It felt like a lifetime.

Sherlock was fighting drowsiness, eyes locked onto John's. "Love you," he murmured quietly, and fell asleep with his hand resting on John's face.

John stared at him for a few moments, watching his chest rise and fall almost imperceptibly. "I love you, too," he choked out finally. The words felt strange and heavy on his tongue, unwieldy, like he was speaking German or Cantonese. He repeated the phrase over and over until it was simply gibberish and had no meaning whatsoever, and rolled onto his back with a sigh.

_If you like it then put a ring on it,_ Harry's excited text had read after John had told her they'd finally done 'it.' He was sure there was a pop-culture reference in there somewhere, and Harry's advice was never something to put much faith in. John had only confided in her because he had been thoroughly gobsmacked by how events had turned out.

Married to Sherlock. Life wouldn't be much different. _Except I'd be the only one who'd get to flirt with him, _he mused_, and kiss him, and patch him up every time he did some incredibly ridiculous thing and got in over his head.__  
><em>  
>It was something to think about, in any case. <p>


End file.
